Page 16 of Healing Hazel

“Zhat should ease zhe lad’s pain,” Dr. Laurent said, patting the unconscious soldier’s shoulder.

Joelle reported the patient’s pulse rate, and Jim traded places with his colleague. He threaded a suture needle to close the wound.

A blast sounded, followed quickly by another. The explosions were not close, but the noises—and their implications—were worrying. Another attack. Another battle. And soon enough, the wounded would be at their door.

Jim stitched the soldier’s scalp, his ears pricking at the sounds of gunshots echoing in the mountains. “How far away?” he asked.

“Miles,” Dr. Laurent said. He tilted his head, as if the adjustment might improve his hearing through the stone walls of the monastery.

Jim clenched his jaw, frustrated. Miles meant it would be hours before the wounded were treated—in the best scenario. It could be longer. In a business in which moments meant the difference between life and death, such a wait only decreased the chances that the patients would survive in order to be treated at all.

“A field hospital,” he said. “That is what we need. That is how we can save lives.”

Dr. Laurent shook his head. “We do not know where zhe attacks will take place. Zhere is no battlefield. Ambushes on rocky mountains or bombings in a town—zhey cannot be predicted. Unless you propose asking zhe armies for an advanced notification of zheir battle plans.”

“We could get closer,” Jim said. “The majority of the attacks have been in the area around Santa Rosa, haven’t they? We could at the very least mount a rescue.”

“You are right, of course.” Dr. Laurent shrugged.

Jim finished and motioned for Joelle to bandage the soldier’s head. If the wound could resist infection, there was a strong probability the young man would survive. His mental state if he did was yet to be determined. Injuries to the brain were unpredictable. Some patients recovered and resumed their lives easily. Others were never the same. At the very least, Jim feared the soldier would suffer recurring headaches and perhaps some memory loss.

The orderlies returned the soldier to his bed in the ward, and Jim and Dr. Laurent headed to their respective sleeping quarters, knowing they had only a few short hours of calm before the storm.

***

It was, in actuality, three hours later when Jim was called from his bed. He rushed to the hospital’s entryway, pulling on his white coat. Though he did not think the garment at all practical for the work he did, the sight of the coat garnered respect from patients and family members alike. It calmed people at the worst moments of their lives, and they would listen and defer to the man wearing it.

He didn’t pause in the doorway but strode straight into the chaos, assessing the needs of the various wounded as he moved through them. Some were already deceased. Others had injuries that could wait.

People yelled for help and, in their panic, grabbed on to medical staff, begging assistance for either themselves or their companions. The confusion of noise and movement made it difficult to take measure of the wounded.

Jim yelled above the clamor in a loud voice. “If you are not wounded, you must leave the hospital immediately.”

Dr. Laurent repeated the order in Spanish, and Lucía repeated it in Basque.

Orderlies opened the doors and escorted people outside.

At Jim’s orders, Lucía directed nurses to clean and bandage wounds. Dr. Laurent was already rushing a patient with a head injury into surgery.

“Doctor,” a faint voice said.

Jim spun. Hearing a voice speaking English among all the others was so unexpected. A young soldier in a red coat lay on a blood-stained stretcher. At the sight, a memory flashed through Jim’s mind, hitting him with a wave of emotion.

Miss Thornton hurried to the soldier and knelt beside him. “You’re English.”

“British Legion, ma’am.” His voice was quiet and speaking took an effort. He sucked in a pained breath.

“You’re in good hands here, Private,” Miss Thornton assured him.

Jim crouched on the young man’s other side. He lifted the bloody pile of cloth off his abdomen, letting loose a foul odor. The laceration was deep, and it had torn the bowel. Jim’s stomach was heavy. Infection had probably already set in. There was no saving this patient.

“Doctor?” Miss Thornton stared at the wound, her eyes wide. She looked up at him, and seeing his expression, her brows drew together.

He gave a small shake of his head.

Miss Thornton blinked, pulling in a quick breath. She swallowed hard.

“Stay with him,” Jim said in a quiet voice. “It won’t be long.”

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